What Harm Indeed
by angelically-devilish
Summary: Sequel to 'What Harm Would It Do' Any niggling doubts she may have had about her life choices had been muted...by the ever-present, resigned rationality of "what harm would it do?"...What harm indeed. What good, it now seemed, was a more relevant question.
_**A/N:**_ _I once again apologize for the unforgivably long delay between posts._

 _This is a sequel to **What Harm Would It Do?** This sort of stands alone, but if you have questions, read that first before asking._

 _Also, I'm not abandoning anything. I've just had a few dreadful years of Real Life, culminating in a hospital stay this past March. I'm not saying this for sympathy, I'm merely addressing my absence as the consequence of a lot of different, frustratingly-unavoidable events._

 _Additionally, I very much appreciate the support of everyone who has asked (or hounded, or cajoled, or demanded) updates from me. They are forthcoming. To sum up the previous paragraph: life is a real bitch sometimes._

 _Lastly, I truly hope you all enjoy this piece. I doubt there will be another. I recognize it has a rather…unresolved ending, but that's sometimes how life works. This was therapy for me, as was_ _ **What Harm Would It Do?**_ _However, should I need another bout of written therapy, this is a deep mine to plumb, so never say never._

 _Lemons await. I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

 **What Harm Indeed**

Hermione walked alone through the dark, quiet streets, rain clutching to the strands of damp hair while around her the glow of street lamps gave London its stereotyped, Dickensian aura. Her aimless, wandering mind paid her environment no attention. She was within, and without; numb, and yet in so much pain she wondered how she still managed to remain upright and moving. Her feet simply tread the familiar streets of their own accord, and she was content to let them.

For so long—almost her entire life, it felt like—she had tried to do "the right thing". Now, she could barely define what that meant anymore. Her mind swirled with words that were now coloured by ersatz quotes. She had spent so long being "the good girl". The "dutiful wife". The "perfect friend". Any niggling doubts she may have had about her life choices had been muted by those adjectives; by the ever-present, resigned rationality of "what harm would it do?"

She almost scoffed aloud. What harm indeed. What good, it now seemed, was a more relevant question.

She had spent ten years lying to herself with those five words. Ten years standing dutifully next to a man who never really saw her; never really understood her, nor ever really tried. Ten years of ignoring, internalizing, and repressing her inner defiance as foul comments and thoughtless barbs slowly tore cracks in her resolve.

Only to culminate in one final act of remorseless betrayal.

In hindsight—for the bitter irony of life always made such things so much clearer after the fact—she should have seen it coming. _'Harmless flirtation,'_ she had thought. Nostalgia. That five-worded life motto, blinding her to what she now realized was the only inevitable conclusion to a ten-year marriage of two people who really, _really_ should have known better.

As she reached the silent square of Grimmauld Place, time had ticked to that deep, nocturnal hour where even the warmth of the streetlamps couldn't penetrate the heart of darkness beating through the city. The hue matched her mood as she once again relived that self-shattering moment when the truth finally collided with carefully-cultivated fantasy.

It played, in slow motion, in front of her eyes. The slow push of the heavy bedroom door over the horrific pastel floral carpet her mother-in-law had somehow convinced her to install; the rumpled, 680-count Italian-made Egyptian cotton sateen weave sheets on the bed she and her husband had shared for the better part of a decade.

His defiant, unapologetic stare. His companion's smug, self-satisfied triumph.

It all flickered in Technicolor wonder through her mind, playing the moment on repeat to continuously rip out any sutures she may have tried to stitch to fix her broken soul.

She hadn't run, at least. She gave herself a modicum of credit there. She had merely reminded him that _her_ money had paid for the house, the bed, the sheets, and the Goddamn carpet, and if he and his friend didn't vacate the premises within twenty-four hours, he would be removed forcibly.

He had laughed at her. Actually laughed. Each note of it ate at the last remnants of her faded façade of happiness. She had waited, and when his laughter finally died down, she pulled out her wand, conjured a patronus, and sent a message to Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, asking for a private audience with him the following morning.

He had stopped laughing then.

He knew as well as she did the type of influence she wielded. She was, after all, one of the most well-respected members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His face had paled, and she knew the begging would start soon. She didn't give him the chance. As the incoherent babbling started, it was then, and only then, that she turned and left to maintain what remained of her dignity. She knew he would be gone by morning.

And now, she stood at the site where everything had changed. For years, she had used 12 Grimmauld Place as her own, personal refuge. For years, Harry hadn't dared set foot there, nor Ron, nor any other member of the long-retired Order of the Phoenix. For years, it had sat empty, to serve as her safe place; her sanctuary. Nobody had disturbed her there until one day, the house was no longer empty.

One man—a man whose return to the land of the living still remained shrouded in mystery—had once more taken residence.

Sirius Black.

He had never asked her why she spent so much time at his former residence; why she had fixed it up, bit by bit, when she had known no one would come back to appreciate it. He had merely reappeared, thanked her for the renovations, and proceeded to let her float in and out as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She hadn't questioned his easy acquiescence. She figured, since he didn't ask, neither would she.

She didn't know when she had knocked, her mind occupied by her quiet meditation of recent events, but when she looked up the handsome animagus was standing silently before her. He didn't say a word as he allowed her to pass over his threshold like she had done so many times in the past. His face remained the unreadable canvas it usually was as he took in her wet and visibly-broken appearance. Instead, he merely watched her as she hung her traveling cloak, and then followed her wordlessly up to the Black family library.

Memory seized Hermione as their footsteps echoed through the cavernous halls. They mixed with accompanying memories of happy laughter, breathless sadness, silent mourning, and warm, unconditional love. For one house, Grimmauld Place was filled to bursting with so much more than its curious knick-knacks and questionable taste in furnishings. All of the emotions contained within its walls washed over her. She had known love here; known sorrow. It was where she had been pushed into her adulthood far earlier than she should have been, and a place of hope, comfort, and safety in the years that followed.

It was only fitting that she once again found herself there as the world splintered around her.

She made her way to the cut-crystal decanter in the corner, barely noting the warm fire and discarded book next to a well-worn leather armchair. She had come craving an escape, and now grasped greedily for it in the bottomless depths of a whisky glass. She downed the generous pour in one, revelling in the angry, velvet heat as the liquor burned its way down her throat. But it wasn't enough, so she had another glass. And another. And another.

Once she poured her fifth, she turned to her host. He was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed in his practiced pose of arrogant ease. Only she was ever able to detect the restless energy that simmered just beneath the surface; the relentless tension of a caged wild animal, ready to pounce with a swift deadliness only the greatest of fools disregarded. And Hermione Weasley, née Granger, was no fool.

She had always envied his easy self-assuredness.

"How long have you known?" she asked, moving toward the fire and sinking into the moth-eaten sofa across from his beloved armchair.

"Awhile," he replied, not bothering for clarification as he joined her, resuming his seat by the fire and carefully putting his book aside. "I assume you just found out?"

She nodded absently, her gaze fixated on the small eye of purplish-black at the centre of each dancing orange flame, watching them reach for the heavens in a symphony of pops and crackles.

They sat together in silence, and she was grateful. The firewhisky had dulled her grief, but her heart now pounded with fury and frustration and regret. Ten years, she had sat on the side-lines, content to ease Ron's insecurities by repressing her true, independent nature. Ten years, enabling a man stuck in perpetual adolescence. Perhaps it wasn't the lifetime of love and fidelity she had envisioned for herself. Perhaps it wasn't the idyllic bliss she had seen in other marriages. But ten years was too long— _far_ too long—to devote to a man who had proved himself thoroughly undeserving of that devotion.

The alcohol had clouded her mind somewhat, but it did nothing to ebb the wet chill of her body. She wondered briefly if she shouldn't just let herself succumb to the consequences of her late-night walk in the cold damp. She could feel herself standing at her own psychological cliff, teetering over a dark abyss more lasting than the witching hour's night sky. She considered pitching herself into that inky black. Then a voice reasoned that by doing so, she was letting _him_ win. Her long-quiet lioness reared in disgust at the thought. Hermione Weasley—no, Hermione _Granger_ —was _not_ going to lose to Ronald fucking Weasley.

Sirius, it seemed, silently agreed with that near-forgotten feline within her. When she finally looked up from her reverie of self-pity, she found herself next to a pile of dry clothes. Dry clothes, and a hot cup of tea.

She changed in front of him, fully aware of his watchful gaze. It was perversely gratifying to feel his eyes linger on her bare curves. It had been a very long time since she had felt desired by a man, and middle age had not dulled Sirius's appreciation of the female form. She was secretly thrilled by his subtle shifting and the surreptitious crossing of his legs. He remained, however, seated, content to simply watch her.

He kept quiet as she settled onto the sofa once again, drawing her legs up the way she used to when she was younger. She knew he was waiting for her to initiate conversation. She couldn't remember the last time someone allowed her to take the lead. It was a refreshing, yet oddly foreign feeling. As if she was being asked to perform a spell she hadn't used since school.

Or, probably more accurately, since her marriage.

"For the sake of full disclosure," she started, meeting his patient gaze. "You should know I initially came here with…well…we'll call them _questionable_ intentions."

He quirked an eyebrow with a slight smile. "I suppose that's…flattering."

"But not very noble, I'm afraid."

"Well," he started, sitting back in his chair. "I've often found nobility to be a bit overrated sometimes."

She snorted. "You would." Then she slapped her hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry. That was appallingly rude."

He chuckled. "Perhaps. But it does have an annoying ring of truth to it."

"Please forgive me, Sirius. You've been so kind and I just—"

"'Mione," he interrupted. "Really. It's fine."

She sighed, looking back at the fire. "You must think I'm such an idiot."

He frowned. "Why? For inadvertently speaking a truism about my otherwise-unimpeachable character?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "No. Not about that. About Ron."

"Ah. Well, in that case, no, I don't. Idealistic, perhaps even a bit…naïve, but not an idiot. Never that, love."

"Well," she said, taking another, smaller sip of firewhisky. "That makes one of us."

"It's not idiotic to see the best in others, 'Mione."

"Isn't it?"

"Of course not."

"And yet."

He leaned forward, steepling long, elegant fingers under his chin. "He's the idiot." She scoffed and he took her hand. "He is, you know."

"Then why am _I_ the one sitting on a damp sofa seeking solace at the bottom of a whisky glass?"

He leaned back again. "Well, part of me would like to say that behaviour is my impeccable influence." This earned him another small smile so he added, "But mostly I think it's because you're smart enough to know that mourning isn't easy, and—occasionally, mind—drowning one's sorrows in alcohol can be therapeutic and un-inhibiting."

"In that case, cheers to liquid therapy," she deadpanned before finishing off the glass.

"That said," he continued, plucking the glass from her before she could consider pouring herself another. "You're also smart enough to know you'll be _very_ sorry in the morning if you continue searching for answers in cut-crystal. I suggest you move to the tea, if only to conserve my supply of libations. Contrary to popular belief, they are not unlimited."

"Altruistic to the end, aren't you, Mr. Black?" she said sarcastically. Then she sighed. "I'm sorry. Again. Shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth."

He brushed the apology away good-naturedly, saying. "You know, I remember a time when you would have gleefully singed your own eyebrows off before even considering apologizing to me."

"I must have been quite the arrogant twit back then."

"Sometimes," he said, though he was still smiling. "But you were right, more often than not. That's what made it so damned vexing."

She sighed again. "You and Professor Lupin once called me the brightest witch of my age. I hardly know if I ever deserved that kindness."

"That's just the self-pity talking. Drink your tea."

"I'm serious."

"'Course you are. Drink your tea."

Giving him a withering look, she nonetheless took a tentative sip of the hot beverage. She closed her eyes with another sigh, this one out of contentment. She reluctantly admitted to herself that it had a better effect on her weary body than whisky. She didn't know how he knew, but Sirius had prepared it exactly the way she liked it. She hadn't realized he had been so attentive.

After a few more moments of quiet contemplation, she gave him a grateful look. "Thank you."

He nodded graciously. "You're very welcome."

"Not just for the tea. For everything. The clothes, the whisky, the—"

"Hermione," he interrupted gently. "I know. And you're still very welcome. Always."

She nodded, and turned back to the fire.

Yet another few moments of silence slid between them, then he said, "You still are, you know."

She looked at him with a frown. "Are what?"

"The brightest witch of your age. You still are."

"I don't know. I sometimes feel like I failed to live up to that title."

"You don't have to live up to something you are." He took her hand again. "Conversely, it's not failure if you can't live up to something you're not."

"I…don't follow."

"You were never going to be content just being someone's wife. Especially Ron Weasley's wife. You weren't made to be subservient to that man. You're better than that."

"I'd hardly call myself _subservient_ , to him or _any_ man," she replied hotly.

His lip quirked up slightly. "Overly-indulgent, then. You used to be ambitious. You used to shine. What happened to that girl, I wonder?"

"She grew up," she replied quietly, drawing her hand out of his and curling deeper into the sofa as she turned back to the fire. "She grew up, settled for the life she thought she wanted, and then compromised herself for ten years until there was nothing left of that girl."

"She's still in you. I've seen her a couple of times tonight. Granted, I prefer it when she's not casting aspersions, but she's very much around. _You_ just need to start believing in her again."

She turned to him again, a small smile playing on her lips. "You know, _I_ remember a time when _you_ would have gleefully singed your own eyebrows off than admit you believe in me."

He grinned. "Yes, well…I _know_ I was quite the arrogant twit back then. Plus, I'm rather fond of my eyebrows."

Realizing she was still smiling drew Hermione back to her current circumstances, and the tears she had been trying desperately not to shed threatened to spill over. She let her head fall back against the cushions to try to stem the deluge, whispering, "God, what a mess."

Unsuccessful at ebbing the tide, they settled into another companionable silence as the tears slid down her face, dripping from her chin and into her tea. She could barely mumble a 'thank you' when a clean handkerchief slid into her blurred vision, but somewhere in her mind she was slowly coming to terms with the fact that Sirius didn't need thanks for what he did. She hadn't thought of him as a gentleman before—mainly because he himself would have been horrified if anyone had labelled him as such—but somewhere amidst all that playful rakishness, he had internalized some of his aristocratic breeding. She appreciated it more than she was able to express.

When the sniffles had stopped and the tsunami of saline had slowed to the occasional glimmer of moisture, Sirius said, "I'm impressed, you know."

She blew her nose into the handkerchief, responding with a muffled, "By what?"

To his eternal credit, the man kept a straight face. "By you."

She gave a brittle, hollow laugh, looking at him once more and gesturing at herself. "By this?"

He shook his head. "No."

"What, pray tell, could I have possibly done to impress you?"

"You haven't yelled at me."

That caught her by surprise. "Yell at you? Why would I yell at you?"

"For not telling you. About Ron."

She went still. "Oh."

"I thought about it," he hastily added. "I really did. But when I found out I was so conflicted about…well…anyway." He inhaled deeply. "I realize I may be inviting it, but I'm impressed you haven't hexed my nuts off for keeping it from you."

She shrugged. "If I'm being perfectly honest with myself, I don't think I would have believed you. I can't blame you, since I doubt I would've taken you seriously. I had rose-tinted blinders for a very long time. I realize that now." Then she sighed. "I'm starting to wonder _how_ blind I was, though."

His brow furrowed. "How do you mean?"

"I suppose…I suppose I just wonder…I just wonder, who else knew? Who else knew and…and didn't tell me." When he remained silent, she looked at him closely. "Or I suppose the better question should be, who _didn't_ know. Other than me, of course."

He shook his head. "Don't think about that. It isn't worth it."

"Isn't it?" she asked, feeling the fury start to kindle once more within her. "Ten years, Sirius. We were married for _ten years_. If everyone knew, how little do they think of me if _no one_ could be bothered to tell me?" Then a thought hit her, and the anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared. "Perhaps I brought it on myself."

Sirius visibly started. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I spent so long convincing myself I was happy. I projected the image that I was happy. I behaved as though I was happy. Perhaps I was so good at it that people thought it would be safer to leave well enough alone."

He sighed. "I can only speak for myself, Hermione, but I never thought you were happy."

She frowned. "Then…why didn't you…"

"I thought you were _hopeful_ ," he said. "I thought you were _hopeful_ for happiness. It's much harder to shatter someone's hope than their happiness."

"Hope," she repeated contemplatively. "What a disarmingly dangerous little word."

"It's only dangerous when you lose it."

"Or if it's destroyed."

He shook his head. "I don't believe it can be wholly destroyed by another person. It can be shattered, perhaps so shattered it takes years to repair. But the only person who can really destroy it is you. Sure, others can make you question it, but in the end, you're the only one who has the power to snuff it out completely. And you, my love, are not a destroyer of hope. You inspire it, whether you believe it or not."

She gave him a funny look. "When did you become such an optimistic philosopher?"

"What are you talking about? I've _always_ been an optimistic philosopher. It's my raison d'être."

"Oh really? Then I think you and I have very different definitions, because I seem to recall you as more the despondent, broody, and whiny type."

"An optimistic philosopher can't have a few bad days?" She gave him a look and he added, "Fair point. An optimistic philosopher can't have a few bad _months_ , then?"

She laughed at that. An actual, throaty, genuine laugh. It felt so good, it made her wonder how long it had really been since she had honestly appreciated someone's sense of humour. Ron had been sophomoric at best. At worst, he had been relentlessly galling. She had, of course, played along with his immaturity. It was freeing to realize she didn't have to anymore.

"You know, when you laugh, your eyes light up in a way I haven't seen since…well…since your school days, I suppose," Sirius said softly.

"It's probably been that long since I've had a really good laugh. And though I was loath to admit it at the time, you really were always good at making me laugh."

He smiled slightly. "I won't tell anyone if you won't."

She smiled slightly. "I don't know why I didn't appreciate you more back then, Sirius. I never apologized to you for how I treated you. Lord knows I bitterly regretted all the horrid things I said to you once you d—after you fell through the Veil."

"As I intimated earlier, 'Mione, I'm sure I deserved most of what you said to me."

"Some of them were…well…perhaps I didn't say them to your face, but I thought them. And they were truly unfair."

"Admittedly, it was not my finest year."

She sighed. "It was a tough one for all of us, if memory serves."

Memory did serve, though there were moments of that year she would've preferred not to recall. Harry's sullen despondency, for one. Professor Lupin's haggard appearance and Dumbledore's preoccupied solitude and mysterious absence from Umbrage's vile authoritarianism. Her own besotted attitude toward Ron as they stood together, trying to remind Harry that he didn't have to be alone with his demons. She remembered believing so strongly that Ron had matured, staunchly defending their commitment to Harry; reminding him they were a team. The Golden Trio.

That particular nostalgia grated. How fickle a friendship that had proven itself to be.

"Harry knew, didn't he?" she finally asked. "About Ron and Lavender?"

Sirius sighed. "Hermione—"

"I'm not surprised," she interrupted. "That he didn't tell me, I mean. He and Ron have always been…well, they always had each other's backs in a way they never…" She swallowed the disappointment that welled in her throat. "I suppose I had hoped…" She trailed off again, then gave a bitter laugh. "Hope. There's that word again."

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, for the first time all evening looking slightly irritated. "You know, I wish…I _wish_ …I had been here before you married him," he said, and she detected an edge to his voice. "I wish I had had the opportunity to try and talk you out of marrying him."

"I honestly don't think I'd have listened."

"Oh, I can be _very_ persuasive when I want to be."

She smiled. "Of that, Sirius Black, I certainly have no doubt."

"Why _did_ you marry him?"

She shrugged. "Partly because it was expected. A tidy little loose end neatly wrapped up at the end of a long, harrowing childhood. But I suppose I thought it would be...safe. After spending seven years narrowly escaping destruction and death, it was comfortable."

"Marriage isn't a woolly jumper, 'Mione."

"So I've discovered. This one was particularly itchy."

He smiled. "Careful, my dear. You very nearly made a decent joke."

"Sod off, Sirius, it was a _good_ joke," she countered, smiling.

He leaned back, a contented smirk on his face. "That's my girl."

Hermione felt a little giddy. She was certain the firewhisky had finally started to affect her, but she couldn't shake the feeling that Sirius's company had an intoxicating effect all its own. Her mind drifted away from the broken shards of her personal life and settled on the handsome man and the so-called "questionable" intentions she had arrived with. Then, those five little words scrolled through her mind: what harm would it do?

Hermione wasn't blind, nor was she—in spite of herself sometimes—stupid. Women tripped over themselves to catch Sirius's eye. His reputation as _the_ consummate lover was legendary. Even at fifteen, Hermione had heard the rumours, though at the time she had dismissed him as disgustingly libertine. As she got older, however, the self-righteousness of her youth gave way to a womanly curiosity. When he resurfaced looking much the same as he had that tragic night in the Department of Mysteries, that womanly curiosity developed into the type of fanciful crush one developed on a sporting or pop star; a fantasy of the unattainable.

But sitting there, mere feet from the dashing, witty, intelligent, and charming aristocrat, Hermione finally admitted to herself that the pages of _Witch Weekly's_ 'Sexiest Wizard Alive' issues didn't hold a candle to him.

"What?" he finally said.

His innocuous question startled her from her musings. "What?" she repeated.

"You were staring at me as if I were your favourite dish at the Hogwarts first night dinner feast, and you were famished."

She felt a blush start to creep up her neck at being caught, and she tried to cover her embarrassment with a light laugh. "I don't think you taste nearly as good as Winky's treacle tart."

He smirked. "You'd be surprised."

The husky innuendo in his voice made her choke on her tea, and she was certain the blush was fully blooming on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out, giving her, she was sure, the distinct look of a codfish. In the back of her mind, a voice that sounded eerily like one of the twins chastised her with a sarcastic, _'Smooth, Granger. And for your next trick?'_

"If I didn't know better, from the lovely pink on your cheeks I would think you were staring at me and reconsidering those intentions you mentioned earlier," Sirius continued to tease. "For the record, I definitely wouldn't have objected."

Regaining her wits, and in no mood to be teased, she cleared her throat and said, "I hardly think a self-pitying, broken, and depressed soon-to-be divorcee would be your cup of tea, Sirius."

"Well, there's a first for everything," he said, still smirking. When she didn't respond with a snappy rejoinder, his smirk faded and he sat forward. "'Mione?"

"Oh, just don't, Sirius," she said bitterly, feeling the cold sting of rejection starting to rear its ugly head for the second time that evening. "I'm not in the mood to be toyed with."

"If you want me, you can have me."

"For God's sake, Sirius, I said…what?"

He leaned toward her. "If you want me, 'Mione, you can have me."

She blinked. Then she blinked again. For lack of a better thing to do, she gave a small, forced laugh. "Now really. It would hardly be seemly."

He didn't move. "That's not a 'no'."

She crumbled, throwing her hands in the air. "Of course it's not a 'no'! No heterosexual woman in their right _mind_ would say 'no' to you. You're one of the sexiest men in the country, Sirius Black, you practically _ooze_ sexual fantasy. But what type of woman fucks the first man to bat his…admittedly-enviable…lashes at her _right_ after her _wanker_ of a husband gets caught with his own pants down?!"

"Well…in my experience…two types of women, actually," he replied calmly. "The first is the desperate, vindictive woman with absolutely no sense or self-respect."

"Exactly!"

"The second," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Is the strong-willed, capable woman who is finally giving herself permission to go after what she really wants." He cocked his head to the side. "Which are you?"

"Are those my only choices?"

He smiled slightly, slowly sliding back in the chair and letting his legs rest slightly spread. "You're not vindictive. Nor desperate. And you have more sense and self-respect than any woman I know." He let his arms settle on the arms of the chair, fingers lightly caressing the leather. "No one would ever argue against you being strong-willed, or capable. So I suppose the question is, what do you really want? Because if it's me, Hermione, I'm fully amenable to you giving yourself permission to come after me."

She stared at him for a long moment. She took in the long, lean body; the high, chiselled cheekbones; the patrician nose and the full, tempting lips. She drank in the warm, slate-coloured eyes framed by those beautiful black lashes; the locks of shaggy, black hair streaked with strands of dignified silver. And as if her mind and body had somehow lost communication with each other, she felt herself stand and slowly walk over to him.

He didn't move.

She almost stopped. She definitely hesitated. The familiar voice of self-doubt questioned why he wasn't moving; why he wasn't making this easier and taking the lead himself. She could see his desire, reflecting her own, in the depths of his stormy gaze. She had known when she had uncaringly stripped in front of him that evening that he found her attractive. So why wasn't he pressing the issue?

Then his words hit her: _"I'm fully amenable to you giving yourself permission to come after me."_

He wanted _her_ to take the lead. And suddenly, those five devilish words, "what harm would it do?"—words that had plagued a decade of her life—took on a whole new meaning. What harm indeed. What _good_ , it now seemed, was a more relevant question.

The surge of power shot straight to her core, a more powerful aphrodisiac than any chemical, and she took a confident step between his legs and pressed her lips to his in a passionate quest for the answer. He met her hungrily, eagerly, and she was hit by a thrill the likes of which she had never felt before. 'Good' was an insufficient adjective. As she straddled his lap and buried her hands in his soft hair, several words—none of them repeatable—sped through her mind before it was clouded by the blissful sensation of pure, unbridled lust.

There was no more talking. The only sound in the room was the fire and the occasional, albeit brief, gasps for air as their lips parted. She tugged at his hair, nipping softly at his bottom lip before deepening their kiss, sweeping her tongue against his and dancing a fiery tango. He responded with equal enthusiasm, hands gripping her hips and pulling her closer, letting her feel just what she did to his body.

God, did she want it.

"Take off your clothes," she rasped, quickly standing to divest herself of her own garments. He didn't argue.

Standing, he pulled the faded vintage t-shirt off, revealing toned muscle and scrawling black tattoos. She paused in her own movements to appreciate the show unfolding in front of her. He watched her watching him, keeping his eyes on her as he unbuckled his belt, unlooping the leather before abandoning it for the buttons of his jeans. She let her eyes watch his hands greedily, gleeful anticipation flaring at what exactly was about to be revealed.

She was not at all disappointed.

Shimmying out of her clothes, he had barely pulled his jeans off when she pushed him back on the chair. He arched an amused eyebrow but said nothing as she settled herself above him, hovering over his impressive length and moving his hands from her hips to her breasts. He took the hint, palming them gently before leaning up and taking a straining nipple between his lips.

She gave a cracked cry as heat washed over her. He worshipped her body, groaning slightly as his tongue flicked over one hard nipple, then the other. She raked her nails through his hair, tossing her head back in wanton pleasure. She loved the control; craved it. And as she brought his head up to kiss her again, she snaked a hand down to guide him toward her entrance before sliding fully down upon him.

They both gasped, and froze.

Hermione had never had sex with anyone but Ron, and Sirius was considerably more endowed than he was. The stretch pinched, and she could feel her body naturally tensing and widening in order to accommodate him. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable angle, but Sirius's hand on her hips became ironclad as his head bowed and a long, guttural groan left his lips.

"Jesus fuck," he murmured. "Don't move. Please. Don't fucking move."

She went slick at his words as she realized that, while he was far larger than she was used to, she was probably much tighter than he expected. The veins in his neck strained as he fought for his self-control. She watched the battle wage as he lifted his head, his eyes glazed with pleasure and his fingers biting into her skin. She had never seen a man lose himself so entirely in sensation. It emboldened her, and she ran a soft hand over his cheek, gently bringing his attention back to her.

"May I move now?" she teased.

He grinned, though she could see he was still reigning in his control by the tightness around his eyes. "Take me, you little minx."

She kissed him deeply as she started to undulate her hips. Her body responded immediately, goosebumps dotting her skin as she felt every ridge slide deep within her, his hip bone hitting her nub at exactly the right spot. Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping the strands tightly as she pulled back from his kiss to let out a deep moan.

His lips locked onto her neck, his arms encircling her body and holding her as they moved together in a frenzy of sweat and short, gasping breaths. Tension built in the pit of her stomach, searing its way through her nerves and frazzling her mind until the only thing she could think of was the sensations occurring between her thighs. When her movements became erratic, he took over, thrusting up and hitting a nerve cluster that she had previously considered a romance novel myth.

Her orgasm slammed into her, heat roiling through every inch of her and exploding in an inferno of dark, sensuous pleasure. Her body went rigid, legs locked as her back arched, fingernails digging into his back. Her head was a swirling cloud of violent colours, each colliding with each other in a rainbow of chaos. Her ears were ringing and for the first time in her life, she truly understood just how incredible sex could truly be.

"Fuck…'Mione…oh _God_ …" Sirius cried, forehead falling to her shoulder as he, too, went rigid below her. She felt his hips jerk, and his fingers dug deep into her back as he held her close, small exhales of air causing short groans to escape his lips. She shuddered, a secondary thrill running through her at the idea of him finding such pleasure within her.

After a moment, Sirius lifted his head and looked up into her face. His own expression was one mixed with awe and relief. He smiled, saying, "There she is."

Hermione, still floating between the last vestiges of her orgasm and reality, frowned slightly. "What?"

He kissed her chin. "My little lioness; the Gryffindor goddess. You had me worried for a second."

She smiled down at him, shaking her head. "Don't ever change, Sirius."

"Too old for that, kitten," he replied, resurrecting the nickname he had coined for her what seemed like a lifetime ago. "This dog is too old for new tricks."

"Hmm…really?" she asked, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

He laughed. "Alright. Maybe a few new ones."

She grinned a toothy grin, kissing him again. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that reality would once again set in and she would have to deal with the grief Sirius was currently helping her escape. But in that moment, as he fluttered butterfly kisses over her collarbone, she pushed the thoughts of reality away.

She would deal with it tomorrow. After all, what harm would it do?

* * *

 _In the event you didn't read the_ _ **A/N**_ _at the top of this, please go back and do so. It may answer any questions._

 _Additionally, if you didn't enjoy this, please be constructive. Any troll-like responses will be met with staggering indifference._


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